


there in the warmth of the night he said (we are nothing, we are nothing, we are nothing, now)

by makethegirlmad



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, I am evil, Mal Was Right, Tragedy, ariadne is badass, arthur is the perfect boyfriend, bad PASIV science, dom cobb is an asshole, i literally do not know what happens when the somnacin runs out, lots of metaphorical architecture, not really alternate ending, not really canon divergence, recovery (sortof), saito deserves better, trigger warning: references to canon suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makethegirlmad/pseuds/makethegirlmad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere, a top is spinning and it will never, ever stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there in the warmth of the night he said (we are nothing, we are nothing, we are nothing, now)

**Author's Note:**

> PHEW, SO:
> 
> 1\. Tagging this was complete hell because I'm not actually sure if this is a canon divergence. Damn you, ambiguous endings!
> 
> 2\. Still obsessed with Ariadne and Inception. I have seen this movie like sixty times and am still no closer to understanding it. Damn you, Christopher Nolan!
> 
> 3\. I have NO IDEA what happens when you're stuck in limbo and the somnacin runs out, so please ignore the fluky science. 
> 
> 4\. There is a lot of ~metaphorical architecture~ in this piece, I apologize, please just roll with it. 
> 
> 5\. Damn you, Dom Cobb! Cobb is a total asshole. Mal deserved better. Arthur deserved better. Ari deserved better. BASICALLY EVERYONE DESERVED BETTER
> 
> 6\. I do not own these characters, otherwise I would be rich.
> 
> Title is from the song "We are Everything" by Joe Hertler and the Rainbow Seekers

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ariadne had heard once, that tattoos are addicting. She believes it. Dreams are addicting, too.

She remembers the feeling of having a needle stuck under her skin, the PASIV tube in her wrist, somnacin flooding her veins. This is a different kind of needlework, a more permanent scar. The slide of ink on her skin burns nicely, the warm way whiskey burns down her throat, the way teenage rebellion burns a cigarette, the way Arthur's watchful eyes stay on her back, solid and reassuring. The artist finishes, wipes his tools, and hands Ariadne a mirror.

She's read of closure before, experienced the consequences of it in real time, and as she stares at the black-inked bishop on the junction between her shoulder and back she wonders if this, too, is closure. It feels empty.

Arthur puts his hand on her shoulder. "I had a colleague whose token was a tattoo," he murmurs. He traces her wounded skin, gentle. "It was on his ankle. He wore socks all the time, even in the shower. In dreams, it wasn't there."

Ariadne looks at the reddened skin in the mirror, tries to wipe it away with her mind, tries to imagine the chess piece disappearing. It makes her shudder. "Smart guy," she whispers.

 

 

 

 

 

Ariadne's mind is a cathedral, whirling spires and soft gray stone and enchanting stained glass windows. She sees it when she closes her eyes, the vaulting, gothic ceilings ("13th century," Professor Miles lectures in her head, "see how the spires have little curlicues on them, that's how you can tell--"), and somehow she can breathe easier in these rooms, with wide open spaces and beautiful sunlight streaming through the windows, setting the dust on fire.

She remembers, vividly: Arthur's corporate hotel building, steel-plated, glass furnishings, neat and tidy tiled floors; Eames' cold, swirling avalanches; Yusuf's drenched New York streets.

Mal's tiny brick house.

Cobb's elevator prison.

Minds are structural, like buildings, and Ariadne, the Architect, knows this: not all minds are cathedrals. Not all of them hold beauty.

 

 

 

 

 

For a while Arthur follows her around, because Cobb's with his children and Arthur is lost, almost purposeless, and Ariadne likes that she can give him some semblance of control back. He assists on her projects, does her homework for her when she goes back to school to finish her degree, introduces her to some of his old contacts in architecture to help further her career. They share dreamspace with each other, and Ariadne knows his mind as intimately as she knows her own. It's nice.

Ariadne remembers Mal in that godforsaken hotel room, _do you know what it's like to be half of a whole,_ and Ariadne sees Arthur, blinking blearily in the mornings, chugging down coffee, scribbling grocery lists, brow furrowed. She thinks, _yes, I do, but he is not my whole. I am not lost without him._

To be fair, Mal probably hadn't been lost without Cobb, either. Ariadne's never known the real Mal, only Cobb's projection. In all honesty Mal was probably lovely and creative and kind. Cobb had wanted her worshipful and desperate and codependent, and so the Mal Ariadne knew had been. Cobb was a real asshole sometimes.

"I wonder how Cobb's doing," she says aloud, and Arthur mutters something about control freaks. It makes Ariadne smile.

 

 

 

 

 

Minds are structural, things that require foundations, and this way Ariadne can _know_ people, can pick them apart easily. Arthur thrives on planning, organization. Eames improvises. Yusuf approaches matters with scholarly precision.

Cobb thrives on control. It's why he and Arthur can get along so well. Arthur misses him. She can tell.

"I wonder how Cobb's doing," she says aloud to him, and Arthur pauses.

"Ariadne--"

"It's just a statement," Ariadne snaps, and then she looks at the ground. She shivers, a little. Her apartment is cold. Her hands feel empty without her bishop.

Arthur comes up from behind her and holds her for a long, long time. The skin of her tattoo throbs.

 

 

 

 

 

Minds are structural, and they need organization, a pattern. Ariadne has always believed this.

But then she meets Eames, and suddenly she doesn't know what to do with someone as chaotic as he is, how to pick him apart. That may be the entire point, actually. Eames shrugs off personas and personalities every day, hundreds of different extensions of himself, like snakeskin. Ariadne doesn't think she'll ever know all the layers of him, all the souls under his skin, every level of the infinite skyscraper. She doesn't think anyone ever will.

"Good god Ariadne, I can practically feel you undressing me with your eyes," Eames remarks loudly, voice echoing in the bar. Ariadne puts her drink down.

"How--" alcohol slows her speech. She is extremely hammered. That is her excuse. Eames is about as good at picking people apart as she is, but Ariadne has never had to _unravel_ herself like he does, to dig out the old and put in something new. She can't imagine it.

She looks away. "How do you do it? Just _become_ people?" In dreams, she means, but it's Eames, so he can take it either way.

Eames regards her carefully, takes a sip of his drink, smacks his lips together. Ariadne waits.

"They're all _me,_ Ariadne," he says, finally. He stares at the bottom of his glass. "All of them. Even the imitations. That's how you do it. You find a bit of yourself in someone else, and work up from there."

"Then how do you not get lost? How do you hold on to yourself?" Ariadne asks, and he pretends he doesn't hear her.

 

 

 

 

 

Minds are structural, and years later when she bumps into Yusuf she smiles at his tanned wrists, his glowing happiness, the picture of his wife and newborn baby in his wallet. On the nights she can't stand herself she gets out of bed, careful not to wake Arthur, sits on her couch and thinks hard about Yusuf, his contentedness, the laughter lines settling in his forehead.

Not all of them were made bad. At least one of them turned out better for it.

 

 

 

 

 

She visits Saito _once_.

She decides that once is enough and never visits again.

 

 

 

 

 

"I wonder how Cobb's doing," she says aloud, and Arthur shrugs.

"He's with his children." He's stiff for the rest of the day, stiff at dinner, stiff sitting on the couch during Movie Night. Ariadne pokes him and pokes him until he laughs, until he relaxes.

 

 

 

 

 

Ariadne goes back to school, becomes an architect but not an Architect, and Arthur moves in with her and claims an early retirement.

She doesn't think they'll ever be able to go back into the business. Arthur can't, not after inception. They make their separate choices here and divulge, separate themselves from their previous lives. They still have a PASIV device, still share dreamspace, still keep their tokens, but their own minds are the only two they will ever know.  

It's terrifying. Arthur is the only one she has, now. She can't let anyone else in. She knows what can happen, if she does.

 

 

 

 

 

A year after inception professor Miles shows her a picture of James and Phillipa.

They've grown. They're taller. James is smiling; Phillipa is not. She is looking off to the side of the camera, discontent. They look far too much like their parents. Ariadne cannot stand the sight of them.

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes she clutches her bishop until her fingers turn white. Sometimes she touches the tattoo on her back until she remembers the needle sliding in. Anything, to remind her of herself.

 

 

 

 

 

I wonder what Cobb's doing right now, Ariadne thinks, probably something disgustingly domestic. Gardening or making breakfast. Playing with his kids. Sending them to school. Reading the newspaper.

She wonders if he dreams, if that's still even possible for him. She fingers her bishop.

 

 

 

 

 

She likes to look up Robert Fischer when she's bored. He's torn down his father's empire, works in nonprofits now, startup companies. Ariadne doesn't care much about the details, but Arthur keeps relentless tabs on him, watches Fischer's every move like a hawk, looks for anything out of the ordinary.

(They both remember Mal's suicide. They had no idea, going in, about probable consequence, and seriously, fuck Cobb. Fuck Cobb for not telling them.)

Fischer is young and successful, regularly on the cover of _Fortune 500,_ dating supermodels, quietly grieving his father.

Ariadne doesn't know much about being a good person, but she does know that they took advantage of an emotionally vulnerable young man and altered his entire life, mind, and personality. She doesn't know if that makes her cruel. She doesn't know if that makes her dangerous. She doesn't know if that makes her god.

Arthur sees her staring at Fischer's Wikipedia page and closes her laptop. "He's fine," he tells her, firm. "He's successful. He's well-adjusted. He's healthy." He places his hand on her wrist, and his voice goes soft. "Don't worry about him."

Arthur, of course, is far more familiar with this. Ariadne thinks, _but we violated him,_ thinks about what Cobb did to his wife, thinks about the kickback of an invaded subconscious. She doesn't know if they created another Mal, doesn't know if one day Fischer will be an old man filled with regret.

But Arthur has his hand on her wrist, and it's so warm, and the sun is setting on another day, and the light glints off of the steel buildings of Paris, and she feels the burn of the tattoo on her back, so Ariadne nods and lets him kiss her. _Forgive yourself,_ he seems to say without saying anything at all, _forgive yourself._

 

 

 

 

 

She gets nightmares sometimes, remembering limbo:

"Don't lose yourself," she'd panted, Mal dying on the floor, the dream collapsing, "find Saito, bring him back."

"I got it, go!" Cobb had yelled, and Ariadne jumped.

("Then how do you not get lost? How do you hold on to yourself?" she'd asked, and Eames had shaken his head, _you don't, Ariadne, you fucking don't that's how._ She should have fucking learned.)

 

 

 

 

"I wonder how Cobb's doing," she says aloud, and Arthur closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

Ariadne collapses, thinks of knocking down bishops and tumbling structures and buildings crumbling to dust, dreams and nightmares that look the same in the right light, and she wonders if this too, is a dream, because if it is then it's not a very good one, because there are two children who are orphans, because Saito is in a coma, because Cobb is _gone_ , and because somewhere a top is spinning and it will never, ever stop.

Ariadne collapses like her buildings do, her church cathedrals and skyscrapers and temples full of light. Beautiful things never last--she knows, she remembers, someone had told her that once. She collapses on her bed in the evening, grasping her token until her fingers ache. She stares at her ceiling until Arthur comes into the room, silent and grieving.

"We killed him," she says aloud, lets the tears fall, and Arthur pulls her into him, lets her cry into his shoulder.

"No," he tells her calmly. "He's not dead. He just...never woke up. He got on that train and never got off. That's all. That's all. That's all."

 

 

 

 

 

The truth is, Ariadne doesn't know if the consequences were worth her actions.

The truth is, she doesn't know what's real and what's not.

The truth is, Cobb never had to wait for a train.

He'd died on a plane instead.

"Dying" is a stupid way to put it, Ariadne supposes. Saito is lost in limbo, lost in a coma, trapped in his own mind, breathing through a tube in a spotless white hospital room somewhere in Tokyo. Cobb is--

Cobb is somewhere else, she decides. Not with Mal; she'd died down there in limbo, Ariadne had shot her. Perhaps he's with his children. Maybe that's the world he cultivated for himself; him, with Phillipa and James, for eternity, while time outside of him streams on like a river, while his real children grow older and older, alone.

 

 

 

 

Ariadne either stops dreaming or stops waking up. She's forgotten the difference. Maybe Cobb had, too, in the end. She carries the weight of him on her back, in her pocket, a bishop token.

Somewhere, a top is spinning and it will never, ever stop.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
